Engel
by Makore
Summary: Spoilers for volume six and up. Explores Dark Walter's awakening, and the events thereafter.


_**Disclaimer: **This fic contains spoilers for volumes 6+. Don't read beyond this line if you don't want to be spoiled.

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_Author's Note: This little ficlet is meant to explore the mind of Walter after awakening from his capture at the hands of Millennium._

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As soon as I opened my eyes, I knew that something had gone terribly awry in the course of my slumber.

It wasn't the muddled state of my consciousness, nor the revelation that maintaining a train of thought was near impossible that made the unmistakable pit of uneasiness grow in my stomach. It was something else, something different that caused such a reaction upon waking.

I could hear the lingering remains of a voice in my head. This voice spoke to me of the innate wrongness of my situation. I did not recognize this voice to be my own, yet in hind-sight, it must've been.

The void inside of my head did not faze me in the least. Somehow, I expected it, even as I found myself automatically going about menial and unimportant tasks without thought. I dressed, arranged my appearance to satisfaction, despite the strange feeling that tugged at me, and the voice which whispered that this was not my own skin, as if I were borrowing someone else's. Did it matter? Considering my own identity was a mystery to me at this point, it was inconsequential whose I was stealing.

When I laid eyes upon a pair of black leather fingerless gloves, something stirred inside of me. For brief seconds I was dizzy as if physically stricken and robbed of my vision. When my head at last steadied, I found I had donned the pair of gloves with great haste, silver rings cool upon my fingers, the familiarity of such a task somehow comforting. Just as I was staring at them with great purpose, wondering about my connection to such a trivial pair of items, the door to my sterile confines opened, and a man I recognized appeared.

_Dok._

The name was clear and precise in my head. A small part of me had the distinct and violent reaction of bloodlust and rage. However, it was quickly quelled by curiosity and the soothing numbness that afflicted me, and the man gave a small arch of his brows upon finding me awakened. Apparently, he was surprised.

"You're up," he said. I simply stared. He moved before me, motioning me for take a seat upon the gurney behind me. I did so automatically. "You are quite a specimen."

I did not respond. He didn't care. He moved to a silver tray with various medical instruments spread out atop it, and picked up a syringe. Tapping it lightly with his finger, he turned back to me and motioned for me to roll up my sleeve. Without thinking, I did so.

"Do you know who you are?"  
I shook my head.

"Do you know who I am?"  
"The Doctor." The sound of my own voice was foreign and strange, yet I recognized it as mine.

"And do you recall vhere you are?"

I considered this briefly, then shook my head.

"Mm," he said, pressing his lips together as he found my vein and promptly inserted the syringe. After a brief sting, I felt nothing. I watched in mild interest as the clear liquid was filtered into me. "Herr Major hast requested zat you be brought up…" He seemed relatively distraught by this, I noted; some part of me derived pleasure from seeing him in a state of discomfort, but the majority couldn't care less. At the mention of _Herr Major,_ it sent my blood to a boil, to such a degree that my vision blurred as dizziness assaulted me. The Doctor must've noticed my reaction, for I felt his hand at my shoulder to steady me before it passed and I brushed his aid off. I distinctly disliked being touched.

He set the syringe down and noted my gloved hands. For a moment, I could see something in his eyes, something very clear and unexpected - fear, rampant fear. This man was deathly pale as he took a step back, as if repelled by the sight. However, he reconciled with whatever had afflicted him, for he reached forward to take my palms in his own and turn them upward, examining them with wariness. "I see you vasted no time in putting zis on."

"It felt right," I replied. It was the only thing I was sure of. The fingerless gloves were an extension of my body; without them, it was as if I were incomplete. I still could not determine why, though it did not particularly bother me. Despite my absence of memory or identity, so long as these gloves were on my fingers, it mattered not.

"Hmph." The Doctor did not seem particularly interested in my response, and dropped my hands. "Ve vill see just how _right_ zey are shortly. I am… curious, to see your performance." His eyes were suddenly alight with intrigue and curiosity, like a child descending the stairs on Christmas morning. "I only vish Herr Major had given me more time… zere ist still so much untouched potential…" Forlorn was he; he shook this off and removed what appeared to be a remote from his pocket, giving me a considering look that appeared strange on his already eccentric features. "Time to begin. Zee Major is vaiting."

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I learned the nature of my existence in my new residence relatively quickly. I could not disobey an order given to me by anyone within the contents of the Zeppelin, nor could I act against a command or speak unless spoken to. The fat, self-assured little stub of a man called the _Major_ was, by all accounts, my Master. I was to treat him with respect and made to understand the importance of the words that passed through his smug, perpetually smiling lips; a request for cocoa was his first spoken order to me. The wordless cry of protest expressed through a fleeting pang of outrage in my mind was doused by numbness that clouded my thoughts; dully, I understood that I meant no more to this man than any of the other specs visible from the heights of the Zeppelin. That thought, that realization, made the ever-present little voice in the back of my head furious beyond description, utterly indignant and enraged. 

I was no more than a tool. Of this, I was certain.

By all rights, I knew this should've bothered me. The voice screaming at the back of my head assured me of that. Yet, I could not even care. What mattered, however, was the simple reality that I was Butler. This was my identity. I was allowed the satisfying sensation of nearly ethereal wires cutting through metal, through flesh and bone, through the crisp air of a night unnaturally brightened by the fires of war. As Butler, that was all I needed to survive.

It was all I needed to exist. And it was all I had.

The corridors of the zeppelin, though my new place of residence, were not truly my home. The word was associated with a brief flash of images and details that I could not connect to any particular place in my memory. As time passed, I was certain that some sort of manipulation was at work to produce such a result; again, the voice at the back of my head was infuriated, but I was not. There were few things which warranted an emotional reaction on my behalf.

It wasn't until several hours after I received the injection from the Doctor that I began to understand the reality of my situation.

It was when I saw him on the ground from the top of the zeppelin - the flowing black hair, tattered jacket and burning crimson eyes, and above all, the confident and self-assured smirk - that the precious numbness which had held all forms of personality at bay, promptly shattered. I found myself on hands and knees, uttering a name, a woman's name - blood trickling from my eyes in place of tears I couldn't understand why I shed. It was then _his_ hand found my shoulder, and memories attacked me with brutal, merciless ferocity that left me gasping.

In those cold, inhuman green eyes - the expressionless face of the man I understood to be Captain - I could remember my youth. I had been the Angel of Death. I remember him choking the life from my lungs, tasting my blood in my mouth, gasping for breath in futility; I remember hatred, burning shame, disbelief and shattered pieces of my ego paining my pounding heart. I remembered all the faces I'd found on the zeppelin burning like hot coals in my recollection. And when the werewolf hauled me to my feet, killing intent enveloped me more strongly than anything I had ever experienced before.

Brilliant pain assailed me, inflicting every single cell, every single inch of flesh, every muscle and bone so wholly that I thought I would surely die. Yet, I did not. After several agonizing seconds - for that is as long as it lasted, despite the eternity it felt, I was released, gasping and panting as I writhed on the cold metallic floor.

"Welcome to Millennium," came the familiar voice of the fat, insufferably smug man from the end of the corridor. I lifted my head to look upon him, thoroughly disgusted despite my condition; at his shoulder was Doc. I felt my lips twisting into a sneer, and the blood-stained man chuckled, lifting his remote and wiggling it knowingly. It was then that I learned just how far the rabbit hole went.

The werewolf dragged me to the laboratory. The numbing effect of whatever had been done to me in my slumber was rapidly wearing off, and memory was returning to me in sharp, crystal-clear images spanning over sixty nine years and overwhelming emotions. I wanted to howl and tear out my own eyes, to remove the images that flashed over my mind's eye unbidden, but I was powerless. The werewolf tossed me upon a gurney, to which I was firmly strapped and restrained.

"Integra," I breathed.

"You vill see her soon enough," the Doctor said, smiling darkly as he pulled a syringe from behind him, a brief spurt of dark green liquid entering the air before it was forced into my vein. No matter how hard I struggled, I could do nothing in such a position. My gloves were ripped from my unmoving hands, my body slowly becoming numb and unfeeling. The bright, blinding operation light clicked on overhead, and I closed my eyes against it. The last thing I was aware of was the sight of the woman in my mind's eye - _Integra, Master_ the voice in the back of my head I had foolishly ignored, pleaded - before darkness threatened, and I succumbed.


End file.
